


Wink Wink Bump Bump

by iskra667



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-31
Updated: 2011-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-28 14:30:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/308860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iskra667/pseuds/iskra667
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt is bombarded with puzzling innuendos at the bar where he works. (Warnings: veiled discussion of fisting). Same verse as 'Tips', Puckurt in NYC after graduation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wink Wink Bump Bump

**Author's Note:**

> So in this fic, Kurt wears a red handkerchief in his left pocket just as in 3.05.
> 
> According to the hanky code (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Handkerchief_code), this means Kurt is a top and into fisting...
> 
> The rest of his outfit is different though, think fetish red shirt look from BIOTA except with a black leather tailored jacket and skinny leather pants. And the newsboy leather cap he wore in other episodes.

 

'I just love Leather Thursdays!' Kurt beamed, prancing down the street in full fetish regalia, his knee-high bitch boots clapping rhythmically on the pavement, his ass bouncing up and down in his skin-tight leather pants.

 

'That's because you get to watch me stroke my big guitar all night, babe...' Puck leered.

 

Kurt was about to retort something sharp and painful, when two large leather daddies passed them, scoffing loudly. Kurt hooked his arm around Puck's and gave them his most terrifying ice-glare from beneath his black leather cap.

 

The guys continued past them, unimpressed (they obviously had never met the mighty wrath of Kurt Hummel face to face, or they'd know better...), and one of them turned around to wink at Kurt. 'Join us down the road when you're ready to play with the grown-ups, schoolboys!'

 

Kurt gripped Puck's arm so tightly his boyfriend winced, and stared the pair down until they disappeared in the leather joint a few doors down.

 

'As though I'd set a foot in an establishment populated by such rude people!' Kurt hissed, straightening his already perfect tailored leather jacket ( _'Wearing leather is no excuse to dress like a scruffy redneck biker!'_ ).

 

He smoothed the red silk hankerchief in his jacket pocket, perfectly assorted to his red silk dress shirt, and straightened his leather tie, before fussing over Puck's wife-beater. 'All set, Stud!' he purred, pulling his boyfriend inside.

 

'And if you look at this crowd, it's obvious I'm not the only one to appreciate leather _and_ a civilised company!' Kurt's eye had a manic, triumphant gleam, and, as he looked at the nearly packed bar, Puck could not blame him.

 

 _Leather Thursdays_ at _Emerald's_ were the brainchild of one Kurt Hummel. Anyone without Kurt's creative genius would have called it commercial suicide for an outmoded piano bar to open its own leather themed night when the proper leather joint was three doors down the road. And the management, philistines that they were, had done so, laughing at Kurt and telling him to stop overheating his pretty brain, and get his pretty ass back on stage, since that's what he was paid for (badly so, if you asked Kurt, but sadly nobody did).

 

What the management ignored (apart from Kurt's creative genius, but that was an all-too-frequent affliction) was that _Kurt Hummel always got his way_. When Kurt knew he was right, he was never afraid to pursue his goal alone with manic determination. And how Kurt knew he was right! He had a bagful of leather fetish gear languishing in his closet in their shabby flat to prove him so, and a ground breaking marketing insight: _No queen ever turned down an opportunity to dress up!_ Even queens who, like Kurt, had no interest whatsoever in ingesting unhealthy amounts of cheap beer, being slapped on the butt by beefy hands, and sucking anonymous cocks in dusty corners. Kurt could imagine swarms of civilised men, lovers of the finest yet tamest pleasures in life, languishing in agony for lack of suitable social opportunity to wear their designer leather gear, all ready to drop on their knee in front of the first Messiah to provide them with one! (and show their gratitude with slips of green paper). Kurt would be this Messiah, or die trying.

 

His big break happened by chance a few months back. Christian, the grump old queen who played the piano, was stuck in bed with the flu and Kurt found himself without an accompanist. Puck was, as usual, pacing the front door, bored out of his mind, and Kurt had called him inside and handed him a battered guitar that was taking dust backstage. Without a pianist, Kurt could not sing his usual repertoire of showtunes, torch songs and cabaret classics, and they had improvised from their back catalogue of Glee standards. Kurt had wailed some glam-rock while Puck tortured the guitar, until they remembered the one time Puck had convinced Kurt to sing some Judas Priest, the only bad-ass hard rock band with a singer as high-pitched as him. They goofed around on stage, reminiscing their lost teenage innocence, and created a riot. Puck was still mildly traumatised by his first sighting of a roomful of faded old queens head banging to a distorted guitar, but as the sight repeated itself every Thursdays, the outfits becoming more and more outlandish as _Emerald's_ regular patrons left their beloved silk bowties at home to don their leather finery (confirming Kurt's sharp insight that even the most dapper gay man had leather in his closet), the weirdness was soon replaced by a warm feeling of awe and pride... Together, he and Kurt had created something unique, filled a niche in the scene that nobody had known existed, and made people happy. They had created something out of nothing and _helped people_ , and wasn't it the purest, most unadulterated definition of Art? And, more importantly, Puck got to quit manning the door one night a week to prance on stage in all his studly glory.

 

It was a testament to _Emerald's_ stellar management policy that the door found itself unmanned of what could be considered the joint's roughest night. Or maybe it was financial genius in times of recession to trust their toughest patrons to keep troublemakers out by themselves. In any case, it was not as though Puck had needed to intervene one single time in his nine month freezing his balls by the door. Not that he would tell anyone so. He needed the paycheck.

 

To make a long story short, that's how Puck found himself able to close the door on the cold city air one fine Thursday evening, peck his boyfriend on the lips, and climb on stage to wire up his guitar.

 

The joint was nearly packed though the music would only start in a half hour. Patrons were busy ordering drinks, gossiping with friends, and bad-mouthing each other's outfits, and Kurt headed to the deserted piano to do vocal warm-ups before the night officially started, greeted by a few regulars on his way. He sang along to scales, his finger landing in something slimy just as he hit his personal Holy Grail, the high F. Chewing gum. A thoughtful little gift from Christian. After all, it was thanks to Kurt's business genius that he now found himself unemployed one night a week. Kurt sighed, wiped his finger on the piano stool (he only used the piano for vocal warm ups and never sat on it) and headed to the bar.

 

Puck was on stage, fine tuning his guitar, shirtless in his leather pants. Kurt would join him later to contribute high pitched vocals. They alternated on lead, the other singing back up. As much a he loved the spotlight, Kurt did not mind sharing it with the man he loved. Puck loved music as much as he did, in his own way. They both knew what it meant to be working class boys in a backwood cow town, to go for long stretches of one's life with nothing to live for, with nothing but music, and art, and all these things to keep you going until the next elusive sighting of the light at the end of the tunnel. They understood all this, and each other.

 

The barman handed Kurt his usual of Shirley Temple, vodka shot and extra cherries. Kurt sat on a stool and surveyed his kingdom, lazily sipping through his straw. A roomful of men, all dolled up up black leather, yet doing _exactly the same_ as any other evening at _Emerald's_ : sipping sophisticated cocktails rather than drowning bucketful of beer, exchanging sheet music rather than bodily fluids, engaging in witty conversation rather than primal grinding. The living proof that Kurt had been right in his revolutionary insight: that a man adorning himself in animal skins ans spiky metal ornaments did not necessarily turn into a lewd, grunting Neanderthal! The creative vision of Kurt Hummel made flesh!

 

Two middle-aged men sat next to Kurt, eyeing him from the corner of their eyes. Kurt nodded at them primly, and the men answered with a tentative 'Good evening, Sir!'.

 

Kurt beamed, delighted. These men looked a lot like the rude leather daddies from the street, yet, they still knew how to engage in polite, civilised conversation! They did not consider it unmanly to remember their mothers' lessons about greeting strangers. They knew to address strangers of the male gender as 'Sir' rather than as 'schoolboy' or worse 'Princess' (Puck was the only person allowed to call Kurt 'Princess' without it resulting in a painful kick in the balls.)

 

Kurt had always loved men with good manners. They were too old to be his type, and he was taken anyway, but coy flirting had never hurt anyone.'Good evening, Sirs!' he replied with a wide smile.

 

The men eyed each other weirdly, coughed, and made a big show of smoothing down the matching red bandanas in the right breast pockets of their leather vests.

 

Kurt could have face-palmed himself! Of course! The whole point of this night was to dress to impress, show off and strike a pose. He knew that: this theme night was his brain-child! How could he be such a terrible host and not congratulate their newest recruits (he did not recognise the guys as regulars) on their fashion effort. Matching fashion efforts, as it was! How cute! Kurt sighed longingly. That was the one thing he missed about dating Blaine: coordinating outfits. Long evenings spent on skype, looking for the perfect marriage of bowtie and scarf, assorted suspenders and bondage harness. Puck had no patience for such things, and owned about 3 black shirts and 5 T-shirts anyway, so even if Kurt managed to bribe him with sex, or somehow whip him into it, the outfit possibilities were limited. Too bad.

 

Though, if he had to give his perfectly honest opinion, decorative handkerchiefs traditionally went in a suit's left breast pocket, and Kurt firmly believed that, when one wore something as daring as a tailored leather suit, one should stick to tradition in one's accessory choice. But of course, saying so out loud would be rude, and bad for business. Besides, the men did not wear tailored jackets like Kurt's, but casual vests. Maybe this called for a different accessorizing strategy? Kurt had never considered this important fashion dilemma, and needed to devote more time to the question before forming a definite opinion.

 

That's why he prudently kept to neutral ground and said 'What a tasteful choice of accessory! The red perfectly complements the black leather, gives it an edge and some peps!'

 

The men exchanged long, meaningful looks and grinned at each other.

 

'Oh yes, we do like to live on the edge, _Sir_...' one of them replied, lowering his head to avoid Kurt's direct gaze.

 

Kurt blinked, a little weirded out, and looked around. Sure enough, Puck was testing the strobe lights for their set. Probably the guy just had one shine in his eyes.

 

'We're certainly full of peps, _Sir_...' the other man approved, also dropping his gaze 'we like to take things _hard_...'

 

Kurt shrugged. Sure, the men spoke and acted a little strange, but they were _so polite_. No one ever called Kurt _Sir_ like that. He was often called a respectful _Miss_ on the phone, but in person, it was more often that not _pretty boy_ or _sweet-ass_. It was refreshing to be shown a little manners. So what if the men were a little eccentric? This was a gay bar in New York, they were allowed to be so. Kurt had been stigmatised too long just for being his fabulously harmless self to go and snub men just because they talked a little strangely. Maybe they were tourists, or new in town.

 

Kurt flashed them his most charming smile. 'So, are you gentlemen visiting? I don't believe I've ever seen you here.'

 

The men exchanged an excited glance. 'Indeed, _Sir_ , we're visiting from Detroit.'

 

'We came here especially, _Sir_. We heard so much about this place, been told it's the best in the scene.'

 

Kurt grinned proudly. 'And you've been told right! I do not mean to boast...' Kurt said, batting his eyelashes coyly, 'but I daresay I played no small part in getting this fine little _soirée_ going..'

 

The men's mouths formed perfect matching 'O's' and they exchanged awestruck glances before dropping their gazes.

 

'We saw you at the piano earlier, _Sir_...' one of the men started respectfully.

 

'Oh yes! I work there! I'm a singer.' Kurt beamed

 

'We do love ourselves a man who can play the piano...' the second man said dreamily 'Mastering your left hand, such a hard to find skill...'

 

'May I ask, Sir...' the first man trailed hesitantly... 'A fine pianist such as yourself... are you ambidextrous?'

 

Kurt blushed and let out an embarrassed giggle. 'Oh, you know, I'm really a singer. I play a little scales, a little accompaniment, but I'm not a proper pianist. And no, I only write with my right hand, sorry.'

 

The men exchanged such disappointed looks Kurt almost felt sorry for them. He could understand. They obviously loved the piano very much, went to _Emerald's_ especially on their big trip to the City, and ended up here on the one day that the _piano-bar_ did not have any _piano_ playing. Anyone would feel cheated, and Kurt remembered his own starry-eyed dreams of New York much too clearly to scoff at the guys. He really wanted to cheer them up, prove them that not everything was cold and unwelcoming in the city.

 

'I'll be singing later tonight, if you'd care to join me.' Kurt invited them with a friendly smile 'I like to involve the public, singing is so good for self expression, don't you agree?'

 

 

'Oh, I bet many men are just dying to get _involved_ when you get on stage and wave those graceful, agile hands around, _Sir_...' one of the men answered, with what looked like the flash of a cocky grin, though it disappeared as fast as it had appeared. His friend elbow-bumped him and scowled, and the first man dropped his gaze sheepishly.

 

Kurt frowned and stared at his own hands. The men seemed to have a strange fixation with them. Well, he had had a French manicure the day before, his new friends were just probably trying to be gentlemen and were showering him with slightly awkward, but well-meaning, compliments. It was nice, for once, to see his grooming efforts met with more than blind eyes.

 

Kurt beamed gracefully. 'Indeed, I believe than in the performing arts, a flawless presentation and carefully studied stage persona are as important as raw vocal performance. You see, I had this friend in high school, amazing voice, but terrible, terrible aesthetic sensibility. She had turned fashion crime and over-acting into fine arts...'

 

Thankfully for the pair of slightly puzzled strangers, Kurt's diatribe was shortly interrupted...

 

'Get your sweet little ass up, Princess!' Puck leered, playfully slapping the side of Kurt's butt. Kurt bitchfaced him and slapped his hand, but got up from his bar stool anyway. Puck sat on it and dragged Kurt back onto his lap, slipping an arm around his waist. Kurt bounced up and down a few times, giggling, as Puck growled 'wicked little tease!' in his ear.

 

The two men stared at them, horrified.

 

Kurt blushed. Living in New York had lowered his inhibitions regarding PDA, but he remembered easily his prudish, provincial self. Of course the men felt a little awkward that he let his boyfriend grope him like this while speaking to other people. These men were like he was back in Lima. After all, they were on their big trip to New York and all they wanted was to listen to piano music, not snort drugs and get laid in some backroom. Kurt suddenly felt extremely rude and unrefined, and smiled at them apologetically.

 

'Gentlemen, this is Noah, my boyfriend. He plays the guitar here.'

 

Puck leered as he noticed the leather-clad older men staring awkwardly at Kurt, and shot them a toothy grin.

 

'Sorry to disappoint, guys, but this sweet ass here is already tapped.' He slapped Kurt's thigh to mark his words.

 

'Puck! Don't be rude!' Kurt hissed, cuffing him on the ear.

 

'You like rude, babe! It makes you all wet...' Puck said lewdly, catching Kurt's wrist in his hand to avoid another slap.

 

The gesture renewed the men's interest and they started whispering animatedly, eyeing Puck up and down.

 

Puck and Kurt continued bickering and trying to slap each other, completely oblivious to the onlookers. Puck finally succeeded in trapping both of Kurt's wrists, and bent his arms backward to keep him still. Kurt squealed and squirmed fiercely, before submitting to a heated kiss.

 

When Puck released his grip on Kurt's wrists to gently cup his neck and his waist, the two men shook their heads and left.

 

Kurt emerged from the kiss, light-headed.

 

'Where have they gone? They didn't even stay to hear me sing! How rude! And I thought they were such nice, polite men!'

 

'T's allright, Babe' Puck said soothingly 'there's a bar-full of guys waiting to hear you sing.'

 

THE END

 


End file.
